Changes
by HarleyMischeif
Summary: John is gifted a slave after being invalid home. What happens when he discovers a darker side to himself and Sherlock embraces the role he has been forced into by debt, drug use and prostitution? Slavery AU. Obviously. If you don't like it, don't read it. Obviously.
1. Chapter 1

**So I finally got around to starting something new. I can't thank those of you who stuck with me through Out On The Rocks enough. I'm still amazed by the response. I hope you will enjoy this to but will warn you that it will be heavier on the smut and a lot darker. I hope you enjoy it and if it's not for you thanks the same for popping by.**

**An Unwanted Gift.**

He had never agreed with the process of slavery, the very idea of it was enough to make his stomach turn. Yet here he was, apparently being a 'war hero' (debatable) meant that one had a God given right to own another human life. A gift from the state, that was what they had called it. That was exactly what he didn't understand. Honestly he would have been more appreciative of a few extra pounds a month to afford more than a shoe box just outside of central London, or maybe even a better therapist. But here it was and beggars could not be choosers. The room he had been placed in to await the next candidate, was dimly lit, the white walls marked with he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what. The tiled floor was unclean, messed with greasy foot steps and clumps of hair and blood. For something which had such a strong legal standing the auction rooms and kennels really left a lot to be obvious signs of abuse and mistreatment making him feel even less at ease than he had originally been. Half of the slaves that had stood before him in offering looked malnourished and diseased and although he felt pity for each and every one of them John couldn't imagine sharing house with them. As a doctor he honestly wanted to take them and give them the help they required. Perhaps that was what he would need to do, just pick the next poor wretch who walked through the door and take her home. Cure her, pay her, and set her free. Which was all well and good until the door actually opened and he wasn't confronted with a her at all.

The figure that crawled through on hands and knees was slim and pale, a mop of greasy raven curls mussed on top of his head. John wasn't quite able to catch his features thanks to angle and dim light but just the figure was enough to give the sense of a kind of beauty a slave should not own. A presence which spoke of wealth, if you ignored the filth over the pale skin and the complete disintegration of the pointless loin cloth tied around his waist. John blinked, looking up towards the suited man holding the leash.

"My preferences clearly stated someone of female gender."

The suited man nodded, offering up the knowledge that John had just systematically declined every female they had within the walls of the auction house. His mouth formed a small o shape and he nodded his response silently,dropping down to crouch in front of the broken figure of a man. Still he did not raise his head, some stupid assumption about respect more than likely beat into him by over paid auction masters who had no real idea how to treat a human being.

"Look at me."

He murmured softly, the pads of his fingers resting on the pale, sharp chin to guide the slaves face upwards. The first thing that hit him was those eyes. Deep, unreadable, hypnotising. Then the rest of the face, bruise black and blue yet the natural colour of the skin pale as ivory. Each feature sharp, chiseled even. Cheek bones like knives. The sight of him made John's insides burn and he felt guilt for it. That something so sorrowful, so obviously abused and taken for granted could make him feel such a considerable amount of want. Never mind that the male figure which lacked the softness and curves of the female was the only body he had seen to make his pule beat just that little bit faster. There was a pause, one he found himself unable to account for. If beauty were the commodity up for sale he would have snatched this one up without a second thought. And in reality he had no idea what he had been waiting for, passing over slave after slave. The guilt of having to actually own a human being laying uncomfortably with the way he had been bought up. Slaves were for the upper class, his middle class family had done what needed to be done without assistance and then when he was old enough he had moved on to university. In London plenty of people owned slaves, even the students of the wealthier families but the class divide was so severe he had not had much to do with any of them. And now he was here, faced with the task of picking someone to be his property. Sex, chores, work, anything he desired. That was the job of whoever he chose.

The slave was watching him, eyes piercing as if he could read every bloody thought running through John's head. It unnerved him, but at the same time it was inexplicably refreshing.

"Name?"

John asked quietly, head inclined in question. Most slaves had identification numbers and that above all really grated on him. As a soldier he had been assigned a number and what had he become? Little more than a piece on a chess board to be maneuvered around by people who would never really understand war. Maybe he hadn't been a slave in the really sense of the word, but he had run into the battle field without question, blinded by national pride and stupidity and had come back with little more than a limp and a shoulder he could hardly move.

"Sherlock Holmes."

This gave him pause, so the man still had a name? This either made him very new or very important. A prize to the market, one which they would not let go of lightly. And yet here he was being offered up to John on a silver platter. John stood, resting heavily on his cane, attempting to steady his breathing as his eyes continues to move over the slave. The lashed on his back, the marks of restraint on his ankles and wrists.

"Tell me your story."

"I do not have a story." He replied, voice hoarse from lack of use. "But I can tell you yours."

The man in the suit pulled harshly at the leash around his throat, hissing his name in a sharp tone which promise punishment. John glared at him then looked back down at the slave named Sherlock, his interest growing by increments. What exactly did this slave think he knew, after a mere five minutes of hardly knowing one another?

"Go on."

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. I also know that you're completely disgusted with this entire process, the child of a military man from a middle class family. I also know you're about to take me home. So why not just sign the papers and get me out of here as soon as possible hmmm?"

And then the cheeky git raised his eye brow, looking at him for all the world as if he had just ordered John to pick him up and carry him away. And so he stood there like an idiot for a few moments, having been told things this bastard couldn't possibly know. Eventually, and as a complete surprise to him, he heard the words spill from his mouth before he had registered what he was saying,

"This one. I'll take him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the response to the first chapter, things should start getting a little more interesting from here on in. **

Make Me

So that was it then, apparently all it had taken was a few lines which for all he knew could have been Goddamn luck and he had a male slave with no idea what to do with him. It was luck then that the suited man tugged hard at the leash and drew the man on his knees from the room. He was quickly replaced by another, holding all of the paperwork, John was damned if he even read half of it, eyes straining from the dim light and the fact that he wasn't exactly twenty two anymore. One messy scrawl and he was now the owner of a life, an actual human life. A weight rested uncomfortably on his chest, memories of young afghan men and women, captured and drawn into the British slave trade. Bruised, beaten beyond recognition, and now he had become a part of it. The real joke was, even as he stood there in polite time passing conversation with auction house worker some dark part of his mind was already considering what use he would get out of his 'gift'. The straight lean lines of his body, the way his marble skin would eventually be spotless and pale as the bruises faded. The soft full lips, the smooth curve of his spine. John blinked a few times, constricting and concealing a part of himself he would happily never let reach the surface.

He must have been waiting another half an hour at least until he was escorted from the building and shuffled into the passenger seat of a car with blacked out windows, his eyes flicked up to the mirror and saw his new possession now clean, clothed and sitting in the back, eyes still fixed downward. The driver had to ask twice before John had retrieved enough concentration to splutter out his address. The dark, two sizes too small t shirt Sherlock had been put in to had obviously been chosen to be provocative, the collar of it a deep triangle stopping a few inches past the hollow of his throat. Well aware that the clothing was more for his benefit than the slaves, he would hardly have appreciated having to drag a filthy, basically naked man up the stairs of his flat in central London. Jesus, what were his neighbours going to say when he appeared with a slave? His cheeks flushed red at the very thought of it, praying to God that he could just get Sherlock into the flat and then attempt to try and make him look less...owned. Of course there were legal requirements. The new collar which sat on the slave's throat, plan black leather and expected to be replaced as soon as John had found one to his liking. The fact that Sherlock would have to keep his eyes averted when speaking to strangers, a few steps behind John as they walked, eating on his knees. Christ. John released a small, pleading moan, wishing himself so far from this situation that he would of quite liked to be back on the field with his arms elbow deep in some poor blokes half blown up stomach.

Though they were hardly far from where he lived, the congestion and slow pace of London traffic had the journey taking twice as long as it would have if he had taken the tube. But that was another thing he doubted he could handle just yet. Every so often his eyes would flash back up to the mirror and onto the man curled over himself on the back seat, dark ratty hair falling over his eyes and John could paint a picture perfect image of how it would feel to wind his hair in it and pull until...The car stopped and he couldn't get out of it quick enough, hoping rather than believing he could just leave that part of himself there to be taken away back to that hell hole of an auction room. Without really thinking he limped over to the back door, leaning heavily on his cane with one hand and opening the door with the other. He heard the driver clear his throat and almost jumped away, stuttering some kind of apology as Sherlock stumbled out of the car. It was only then that John noticed that his legs were shackled and that the driver was exciting the vehicle with a small key. Something about in transit escape attempts, the usual spiel about making sure to get him tagged in case he tried to run. It was usually the first thing a master would do but John really despised the idea, as if this man was a pet - when in reality he suppose that Sherlock was less than that now.

He offered small thanks to the driver, awkwardly inclining his head to the younger man and leading the way into his building, taking the stairs as quickly as his leg would allow.

"I'm...Well this is a little awkward isn't it,"

He chuckled but it sounded so off and lame in the silent hallway with a man who had to be ordered to bloody respond.

"I...Well it's probably going to be easier if you just talk to me when I'm trying to have a conversation. Otherwise I end up sounding like an..."

John was interrupted.

"Wrong."

He blinked, turning his head to Sherlock who still looked determinedly at the floor as John unlocked the front door to his tiny dingy bedsit.

"I'm sorry, what do you mean, wrong?"

The slave looked up from beneath his wild tangled curls, that same challenging smirk plastered across his face.

"It would be impossible for you to end up sounding like an idiot when by nature you already are one." He paused. "I wouldn't take it personally, almost everyone is."

Well. That was...rude. For a good while he was speechless, head tilted in genuine curiosity.

"Everyone except you I assume?" John asked quietly, not quite angry just yet.

"It's good to see you're catching on..."

Good to see he was...Well this was nice, wasn't it? Apparently he had acquired a slave with a pain kink or a death wish because anyone else wouldn't have thought twice before knocking him out as soon as he had opened his mouth let alone said something like that.

"Oh don't be like that." He drawled. "You asked for conversation and I supplied it now are we going to stand here all day. I'm sure you have some menial task for me to perform."

John stood away from the door and let the slave step in before him, mistake after bloody mistake. The cheeky git was never going to respect him, he had been int he arms for God sake. A Captain. And now he couldn't so much as walk through a door first. And he couldn't for the life of him work out what was so intimidating about the whole process, the fact of the matter was that Sherlock belonged to him and John had every right to do and ask whatever he wished of him.

"Apologise." He said bluntly, pushing the door shut with a bang. "Now."

The slave remained turned away for a moment, eyes zooming back and forth over the small apartment and each one of his possessions.

"I would. I mean really, I would..."

Sherlock turned, still smiling, head still slightly bowed but now John was sure it was for no other purpose but to mock him.

"If I had any belief in your sincerity or that you had the slightest intention of punishing me for disobeying. But as it is..."

He shrugged and then, then the bastard gave a low bow and offered the word 'Captain' drenched in as much sarcasm as he could muster. That was the precise moment when John snapped, cane clattering to the floor as he took what should have been two or three steps in one stride and back handed the ungrateful brat right across the face with enough force to send him to the floor. If nothing it was worth it to see the moment of surprise and hear the threatening snarl that came from the floor as Sherlock hit it.

"I said. Apologise."

With a hand passing across his face to stem the blood coming from his nose, Sherlock looked up. Eyes darker, smile wider.

"Make me."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Things started to get heated. Warning for punishment, more so in the next chapter. **

**Let's Begin. **

Make me. The words rang harshly in John's ears, the subdued state the slave had been in when they had left the sale house had been erased as soon as they had walked through the door. He should have known better, of course it was his Goddamn luck to end up with a slave who hadn't been broken in and didn't know his proper place. John faltered, what was he even thinking? He didn't agree with any of this, never had...Then why had it felt so good as his hand broke through the air and made swift contact with skin. Why did the little brat look so delicious crumpled on the floor and bleeding from his nose. In a vain attempt to calm himself before insanity took over he closed his eyes and clenched his fists, revisiting times when he been in situations where his temper threatened to out weigh his better judgement. It happened often in the armed forces, officers fighting among themselves, it wasn't the harmony everyone assumed back here. A bunch of lads having a laugh, arm in arm against their enemy, believing that the only thing they were fighting were insurgents and terrorists. Oh no, they fought plenty among themselves and sometimes it could be just a viscous.

"Get up..."

The order was quiet, still laced with a sense of danger or a threat he still wasn't entirely sure he would be willing to carry out. Sherlock did not move, of course he didn't. John sighed, scrubbing at his face with his hands. If he had expected the anger to dissolve he had been sorely mistaken, if anything it had been replaced by a sick excitement settling somewhere in his lower belly. Twisting, invading thought and conscience. Subconscious unintended movements hand his hand wrapped firmly around Sherlock's upper arm, the man tugging and pulling uselessly. He may have had a smart little mouth but he was still a slave. Had still be abused and underfed, and John may have been injured but was more than capable of putting the little prick back in his place. He bought their faces close, Sherlock's eyes betraying no sense of fear. It should have dissuaded him, the sudden though that maybe Sherlock wanted this, to be broken and played with. Though it didn't, it found him tangling a strong hand the greasy untamed curls on top of his head and wrenching them back fiercely.

"I was more than willing to let you do this the easy way, content to just get on with my life. But now, now you've fucked me off Sherlock. You really, really have..."

"Really? This is you angry.."

The slave struggled slightly, failing to gain any advantage over him. Something about the thing just reeked of fallacy.

"I honestly thought you were being soft with me."

Christ. Why wouldn't he shut up, stop this from spiraling out of control, because John was almost sure he wouldn't be able to stop himself now. The power rose from the very tips of his toes, crawling like spiders over his skin and pumping fresh and fast within his veins. Enough to make him feel dizzy, possessed by it. He gave another sharp pull and this time Sherlock gasped, cheeks becoming flush, eyes blown like bloody saucers. John stilled.

"You want this? Jesus. You sick fuck..."

There it was, the curve ball, the fucking sucker punch. How could any body want this, punishment, abuse?

"What, they weren't giving you enough of this where I picked you up from?"

"Not nearly enough. They were so dull, leather belts and floggers...Honestly..."

The slaves lips twitched up into a smirk.

"I was hoping you maybe be a little more imaginative..."

John blinked, his grip slackening briefly though the taller man made no effort to escape. This had just moved beyond weird, shocking, any of that. It was fucking insane.

"In there...You were trying to impress me because you thought I could think of a more imaginative way to abuse you?"

The anger had gone, replaced by a shameful sense of curiosity and the unnerving knowledge that he was unlikely to walk away from this experience unscathed. Free man or not, John was almost sure he was the one being manipulated here.

"Oh come on, don't act so surprised. You seriously believe that everyone in this world is as transparent as you. Those self doubt issues, sexual repression, all the nasty things you fantasize about...It's quaint actually. That you think you're the only one who just so happens to be a little wrong...Believe me, If I wanted to be free, I would be. I know some people in very high places."

Too much, this was far too much to take in. So Sherlock had made the conscious decision to become a slave, had offered himself up to an industry solely dedicated to the purchase and ownership of humans. John swallowed, desperately fighting the increasing was to shove Sherlock to the floor and give him exactly what he wanted. The slave may be insane but he wasn't wrong. Imagination was one place where John wasn't lacking in the slightest. Moments passed in silence, unreadable eyes boring into his own, probably knowing before he did the outcome of his decision making.

"Strip. Kneel in the centre of the room. This isn't going to be pleasant. This is going to hurt. I will not go easy on you and if you think I'm about to let you go back to that place because you're the most screwed up person I've ever met then you're not really that fucking smart."

John released him, watching the slave throw the tight shirt up and over his head to the floor. Their eyes focused on one another through every single movement. And if the bastard wasn't smiling the entire time...

"I hope you're not going to disappoint me, Sir."

Disappoint him? Hell, he had just walked into the twilight zone naked with his eyes closed. A new mask fell, John's eyes turning cold, a wicked little grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"The first thing we need to do is shut that fucking irritating mouth of yours but I'm certainly not putting my cock anywhere near it..."

He watched as Sherlock dropped down to his knees, now free of any clothing, proof of his sincerity jutting pleasingly from between his thighs. Yeah, sometimes John was full of shit because maybe, just maybe, he would have loved to feed the thick length of his shaft past those lips but he wasn't going to give in that easily. Instead of speaking John walked over to the small kitchenette, taking a bottle of water from the fridge and uncapping it. Purposefully ignoring Sherlock who just knelt there with big doe eyes like he was expecting a fucking present. Insane. Completely insane. John uncapped the soap he used to wash the dishes and squirted the smallest amount into the top of the bottle, giving it a good shake.

"Head back, mouth open. Swallow or spill any of it and it will be a lot less pleasant for you then it will be for me."

John returned to him, looking down as the length of the man's neck was stretched. Pale and perfect, made to be blemished by teeth, tongue, even the cut of a knife. No doubt the sick bastard would be amiable. He tipped the bottle slowly, the rim resting on Sherlock's bottom lip. the soapy liquid flowed smoothly and he could already see the willing slave working to stop it from dribbling down the back of his throat. Before the water over flowed John pulled the bottle back and placed it on the side.

"Now, let's begin, shall we?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much for your reviews and comments. Special thanks to power0girl and her suggestion which I will definitely keep in mind for the future. Now, just warning you, it's about to get smutty.**

Driving Me Insane.

Sherlock didn't look half as worried as he should of, though John supposed that may have something to do with the liquid he was currently trying to keep from spilling down his chin. For the moment he was content to watch, walking to the kitchen and taking his Goddamn time, after all, Sherlock had to understand that this wasn't on his terms. He prepared himself a mug of steaming hot tea, eyes transfixed on the snakes of smoke swirling in smooth patterns from the rim of the cup. There were so many possibilities, so many options available to him which had only every been thought of in distant day dreams and fantasies he would never admit to himself that he had. Occasionally John would turn to make sure Sherlock wasn't breaking the rules, letting his eyes travel up and down, impressed by the fact that the slaves hard on was persisting despite the discomfort he must already be in. He moved back into the living room, taking a slow sip of the hot liquid before placing the cup down onto the coffee table.

"I definitely prefer you like this, it's more interesting than a gag - I appreciate the imagery. You on your knees, mouth full to over flowing..."

John smirked, crouching down in front of his gift and surveying him with bright and almost innocent eyes.

"And it looks as though..."

A single finger was bought forward, the very tip of it tracing a slow line from the thick base to the leaking tip of the man's cock, pausing momentarily to tease the smallest of circles over the precome drenched tip.

"You're enjoying it quite as much as I am..."

Though that probably wasn't all together true, with what he had planned John had no real expectation that Sherlock would be able to follow his previous order, the promised sight of Sherlock drooling and spluttering was far too enticing to let go of. If John had entertained the idea that things may unravel like this he would have been far more prepared, toys were wonderful things if they were in the hands of the right person. Thick black silicone, slicked and pressed into tight waiting heat, bindings and ways of restriction, over stimulation - the list was close to endless. Perhaps a shopping trip was in order, taking Sherlock out with a collar around his neck, having the man crawl along beside him...John paused before he got carried away, his imagination no better than the very real picture he had placed before him now. The pad of his finger now stained with bitter salt was placed barely on his tongue, just enough so he could appreciate the sharp tang of it, something he could no doubt live with very well in the future. Oh yes, it suited his pallet perfectly.

"Now, I could just leave you here. No food, no sleep. Just watch you slowly fade away until it became too much. I don't image you're all that good at doing as you're told but I'm not unreasonable..."

Not yet at least, he finished in his head, now tilted curiously at his struggling slave.

His hand slide back down, taking his time to properly map out and feel the lines of Sherlock's pale sculpted body. Flicking from one nipple to the other, two perfect red nubs just waited to be played with. Reddened, swollen and abused. The moment Sherlock's body twitched John's eyes flashed upward but still the liquid remained, dangerously close to dribbling over the curve of his slaves bottom lip. More than a little impressed John continued his journey southwards, fingers playing through coarse dark hair before reaching the solid base of the prick that jutted out so gloriously. The flesh was pale at the base, reddening nearer the head, the glands appearing swollen - succulent.

"Gorgeous."

He whispered, there was no point depreciating Sherlock or blatantly lying to him, John had already established Sherlock to be far more intelligent than anyone he had ever met which only made it more satisfying to see him like this.

"Not for long though, soon your going to be dribbling come from ever fucking hole you possess, so much that it stains your skin and you'll never forget who owns you. Soon enough your eyes will be red and tears will be burning the corners, threatening to fall down your cheeks as you sob for more, less, everything and nothing at all. But for now I'm just enjoying the peace and quiet."

John stood slowly, the ghost of an ache present in his knee as he rose to standing. Slowly, purposefully, he flicked the leather of his belt from each denim loop and allowed it to fall to the floor, opening the fly of his jeans enough to allow him to dig out the shaft of his own cock. The touch was almost enough to send him reeling, eyes fluttering for a moment as he breathed deeply in a vain attempt to control himself. As his breathing steadied his hand picked up rhythm, there was nothing like the sound of precome slicked flesh being thrust back and forth where all else you could hear was a faint gurgling. The entire time John kept his eyes fixed on his slaves, wide and already starting to water. Christ he really was struggling, the water rippling, raising to the very edge and then seconds later the present sounds were joined by a loud splutter and the obscenely delicious sight of Sherlock falling to his hands and knees. Soapy water flooded from his mouth as he choked and John had never seen anything so fucking beautiful but the slave wouldn't be getting away that easily. One firm hand gripped dark curls, forcing Sherlock's head back roughly, the tip of John's cock mere centimeters away from his mouth as he moved his hand in earnest. The face of the slave was so utterly debauched, so pornographic that John would have paid for the pleasure, but as it was it was his to own and if that wasn't exactly what tipped him over the edge. The oncoming orgasm hit him like a wave, ribbons of thick hot come streaming out over Sherlock's face; sticking to his lashes, painting his lips and even reaching up to his hair line. The room was silent but for John's ragged breaths and the odd cough from Sherlock as the soapy substance but have still be irritating his throat, a few minutes ticked by enabling John to regain some composure, to consider exactly what had just happened and what he had seen himself turn into.

"I..."

He stuttered, eyes blown out a horrified as he stumbled back wards, shaking his head back and forth as if that would help erase everything. this man had been abused, taken advantage of, was seriously messed up for asking for it and John had just...

"Sorry...I'm..."

With one final shake of his head John was in the bathroom, the door now forming a firm barrier between himself and the man who was slowly driving him insane.


End file.
